Chance's Follies
by DragonsDeadAndDancing
Summary: Gah! Don't look at it! It's terrible! REWRITING!
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This is the first story in a series I call 'Patterns', because a great element of them are the loops and twists of fate, coincidence and chance, As Above So Below, the Towers, Shezarr, and last but not least that Dragon breaking and being broken all over again._

_It's a long-term story; many things won't be explained right away but later and later still. There is some headcanon, attempts to fuse the magic systems of Morrowind and Oblivion with Skyrim's, and a lot of hints you simply might not get if you haven't played TES 3 and 4 as well._

_A big warning: There's violence, torture, implied nudity, violence towards children and animals, cannibalism, and necromancy, maybe even an exploding body or three._

_I claim my OCs; everything else belongs to Bethesda._

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter One

It Began With Thunder

2nd of Sun's Dawn 4E200

It began with thunder.

Well, actually the whole miserable story started a few days before. My Family was preparing for the arrival of an important member and, wishing to evade all the tedious work of cleaning and dusting and moving furniture, I called upon a favour I still had left from my name's day. Mother reluctantly granted me a contract and off I was to Whiterun.

It had been easy work: a Redguard nobleman who was hated by everyone and his wife and her lover in particular. I hadn't even wasted enough time to remember the man's name, just caught him in the evening as he was drunkenly staggering between his cabbage fields and slit his throat.

That was the first mistake I had made. Had I at least bothered to dump his corpse in the river…had I remembered Whiterun was the home of the Companions…

It had been avoidable.

I left Whiterun as soon as I had received the payment and headed off towards Solitude. A few hours after my departure I felt watched, followed, hunted. I sped up, and somewhere in the marshes of Hjaalmarch the feeling vanished, so I declared the problem gone.

That was the second mistake. _Confidence kills_, Selwyn used to say, and he had been right. He died too, eight years before, in the very same city where I was heading, vanished without a trace, like Scars-and-Stripes with him and now Kesha. This was probably part of the problem; the old Khajiit had been one of my most loved Sisters, and her disappearance a month before was still troubling me.

On the first of Sun's Dawn I had arrived in Solitude in a rather good mood. Although my Nord blood helped me to ignore it, I hated the coldness of a Falkreath winter. Solitude was rather warm – courtesy of the Sea of Ghost – if pretty dark. When I arrived at seven o'clock, it was as dark as at midnight, with the moons and the Fires of Sovngarde still providing enough light for me to see.

I rented my usual room in the _Winking Skeever_ – the smallest and cheapest facing the high city wall – and spent most of the night answering the letter of a friend of mine, Thalendar. We were pretty close, but I still didn't trust him enough even to let him send his messages to Falkreath. _Trust kills,_ another of Selwyn's lessons.

In the morrow, I sent my letter with a courier up to the Thalmor Embassy and then, in a rather gloomy dawn, began to browse through the shops. It was market day and the streets were crowded, overflowing with noise – shrill faked laughter from the vegetable vendor, giggling children, the cries of falcons and gulls soaring high in the air – and smells – decaying fish, sweat under thick winter furs, salt from the sea. To me, it was torment and my mood dropped drastically.

At least I managed to find a present for Gabriella's name's day in the _Bits and Pieces_, a book titled _A Romance in Dagonfel, last and final_. I was pretty sure she hadn't read it already. Then I went to the fletcher, an unnamed shop that had the best and most expensive archery equipment and was usually visited by mercenaries and nobles. Still cursing about the price for decent strings, I left half an hour later and was hit by my mistakes.

When he entered Solitude, ignoring the guards who respectfully nodded as he passed, he looked up to where I stood as if by pure chance, just in the same moment when I gazed in his direction. Of course it wasn't coincidence; beings like us had stronger and stranger instincts, standing with one paw in Oblivion. We didn't have to see each other's eyes closely to know they were from the same unnatural colour, like liquid silver poured into the irises. I could see his lips drawing back to expose his teeth just as mine did and I knew he'd come for me, he'd caught me.

Or so he thought.

I began to run down the path leading from the market place to Castle Dour where the fletcher and the smith were located. He took off in my direction, but his armoured bulk – he was at least one and a half heads taller than me – would only hinder him in the crowd.

I ducked under arms, slipped through spaces between bodies, towards the Blue Palace. While I wove through the crowd, I managed to put together the facts: I had been stupid. The man wore the armour of a high-ranking Companion. The Companions had their seat in Whiterun. The man was a wolf like me, and like all wolves he was very territorial and bad-tempered. I had killed in his territory without even bothering to mask my scent.

I had been stupid and I would pay the price for it…maybe. I wasn't one to give in easily. With the anger pulsing through me, I was ready to kill.

Under the bridge that led from the Emperor's Tower to the tower that held the great windmill, which once operated the gates of the East Empire Company warehouse, and the Smuggler's Door, the road split in two. One lane led through the rich living district, the other, smaller, ran between the backsides of the houses and the city wall. The former was deserted – on the latter weren't even guards patrolling. Perfect.

I hurried to the small graveyard and pressed myself against the back wall of the Hall of the Dead. Not to hide, of course, but I'd always felt safer with something solid in my back – one direction less from where enemies could attack, probably.

The Companion didn't show up for another two minutes, which I used to calming myself down. If I hadn't had the Ring of Hircine dangling from a necklace of ebony under my dress, I would have already transformed and ripped half of Solitude's citizens to shreds. Anger was the worst state of mind for an assassin.

Habitually I let my hands drop to my hips, only to find my blades absent, which put yet another edge to the whirlwind of emotions, a drop of panic, an ounce of fear, a sliver of helplessness. Lorkhaj's rotting bones, I hated this city. During my life alone three assassins had vanished without a trace here, and I didn't want to be the next. Solitude was too good on the outside, displayed a smooth, pristine surface to the world, with necromancy and secrets lurking underneath that pulled those like me under till we drowned. Nightshade was already pushing through the snow on the graveyard, which said more than all the deaths of my family members. The delicate plant only grew in places filled with death, and even at the Sanctuary we only had a few stems that didn't surface till Second Seed.

My mind was drawn from botanical matters when I heard, felt, and smelled the Companion nearing – and there he came. He was even taller than I'd seen before, broad-shouldered and muscled under his ridiculous armour that left lots of places where I could stick my – sadly absent – daggers into. Still, he was nothing compared to Father. He had dark hair, cut roughly to chin length, short stubble of a beard that blended perfectly with the war-paint around his narrowed eyes. Together with the dirt from the road, his face was more or less covered by a dark smear that almost hid the criss-cross of faded white scars on his left cheek.

Also, he carried a very long two-handed sword.

Two steps, one, and his steel-covered hand dug into my right shoulder, pressed me even harder against the stone in my back. "Now," he growled, "you're going to pay, and don't you dare to think you'll be saved because you're still a pup. What should it be – the Jarl or my pack?"

I opened my mouth as if to answer him, preparing to speak a quick lightning spell that would send his guts to Oblivion fried crispy.

Then the thunder hit.

It wasn't thunder, actually. The sky, illuminated by a now fully risen sun, was a clear slightly sickly pale winter grey-white, with not a single storm cloud threatening. And the sound had felt near but too quiet.

Whatever it was, my instincts told me it was a threat.

The Companion let go of me without sparing me a second glance – wolves always held together, even if they were enemies. I crept around the building and, crouching low, I fixed my stare on the Blue Palace where the sound had come from.

Minutes passed, but I didn't allow myself to relax. I had left my armour and weapons in my room at the inn because someone as young as me usually didn't walk around in full battle gear. I wished I had been stupid again. I felt vulnerable, exposed, powerless.

Sounds! A war-horn's cry to alert the guards, heavy foot-steps, nailed boots crushing snow on the cobblestones of Solitude's streets. Guards began to pour out of Castle Dour, one dozen, maybe even a score. They notched arrows on their bows.

A group of people neared from the palace: Six soldiers in the usual flimsy guard uniforms, with kingfisher-blue sashes slung over their chests, were running in a circle around a seventh. He'd be Ulfric Stormcloak then, the Jarl of Eastmarch, clad from head to toe in shades of dark grey, with long brownish-blond hair surrounding a face dominated by a big nose. The guards were trying to cover him with their small round shields.

He was carrying a sword, plain steel, the blade covered in blood almost to the hilt. It had probably been plunged into somebody's chest all the way through, which wasn't a good move in a battle – too much time wasted – but excellent for show-offs, like executions. The blood dropping from it was still warm enough to sear small holes in the snow.

"Loose!" shouted Captain Aldis, and the Eastmarch soldiers were showered with arrows. Some missed, some glanced off the shields, one hit a blue-clad guard in the gut. He fell screaming, his dropped shield leaving a big gap in the cover provided for the Jarl.

Before another volley could be sent towards them, the remaining men from Windhelm hurriedly stepped aside, behind their Jarl. He posed himself in a slight fighting stance, feet apart, fingers curled to fists. He drew a deep breath, and a deafening silence fell.

I knew this kind of silence, and I hated it as much as I usually loved the absence of sound. It was similar to the famous silence before the storm but worse, not filled with energy, exhilarated, nervous expectations and the wish to break it. It was full of fear, of the knowledge that something bad had already happened. This silence ruled in the Sanctuary whenever a Brother or Sister didn't return from a contract. I first felt it when we waited for a half-dead Brother from Bruma to recover, only to have him tell us that the Sanctuary there had been raided, every Sibling butchered, streets running red.

I didn't want it to end. Bad things would happen.

The silence had lasted mere heartbeats that seemed like an eternity, till the Jarl opened his mouth and a wave of sound…an invisible force-filed…a magical shroud somehow racing away from him…an ear-splitting scream…

I probably screamed but I couldn't hear it. My hands were pressed over my ears, much too late to shut out the deafening sound. When I pulled them away, I expected my fingers to be covered in blood from split eardrums. Luckily they weren't.

And I had been _behind_ the Jarl. Just the sound had reached me. The soldiers before him had suffered far worse, thrown through the air like ragdolls flung away by an angry child.

The Jarl coughed, a deep, rattling sound like his lungs and throat had been torn to bloody ribbons.

Suddenly I smelled crushed nightshade.

A limp orange bundle fell from the sky, fluttering as it rushed through the air, and landed between the Jarl and the unmoving soldiers. It hit with the sound of shattering bones. A dead falcon, hit in mid-flight.

When the Jarl coughed again, his men ushered him forward, and they vanished down the street, maybe through the Smuggler's Door down to the coast. They left only crushed snow and a few drops of blood from the Jarl's sword behind.

I tried to stand up. I felt weird. My equilibrium was gone, a headache was approaching fast, and my head felt too light, detached from my body. My hands were shaking worse than usual, trembling like I'd dived in Lake Ilinalta in mid-winter.

"You…" I turned around at the sound of the Companion's voice, stumbled, almost fell. I had completely forgotten him. "You…this isn't…aah…" He shook his head in confusion.

"F-follow me and the V-vigil's on you," I answered. I stumbled off towards the inn; I could almost hear my bed calling out for me and for once I wouldn't resist. But in my mind a word was repeated endlessly: foyada, foyada, foyada.

Why would this plain Dunmeri word appear on a Jarl's tongue to wreak such destruction?

Later in the evening, when I had slept off the aftereffects of the Shout – my mind was again clear enough to remember the legends Mother used to tell me – I went down to the inn's main room to find it as crowded as the market had been. I caught snippets of conversation here and there, and the innkeeper Corpulus Vinius had always been a gossip, so I quickly learned the whole story, or at least people's version of it. Jarl Ulric Stormcloak had challenged High King Torygg for the throne…or wanted him to murder all elves remaining in Skyrim…or declared Eastmarch an independent kingdom, and when Torygg refused…or maybe agreed, Ulfric demanded a duel, during which he ripped Torygg with his Thu'um apart…or transformed into a dragon of legend…or killed him with bare hands. The bards were already working on eulogies and songs about this day.

I quickly gathered my things and left the hospitality of the _Winking Skeever._ It was already dark, but that couldn't stop me.

There were news to deliver.


	2. Chapter 2

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Two

Bad News Are Good News

5th Sun's Dawn 4E200

The snow in Falkreath was deeper than in Solitude, a powdery substance that made running a chore, but it was fun to see it spraying in all directions with every leap. I had been on my feet for over two days now – it was just after midnight – but I didn't feel tired. Not in my territory, not in this body.

I was passing Lake Ilinalta when I heard a familiar voice call out: "Thokka!"

I stopped, and turned my head. Hert was waving, beckoning me over to her mill, and I happily oblieged.

Vampires and wolves were natural enemies for some unexplainable reason. Maybe it was because both were partly creatures of Oblivion. We both preferred to hunt in the night and had an undeniable appetite or even need for human prey, although I personally thought they tasted worse than even chicken, and I couldn't stand chicken. But where wolves relied on their instincts and natural weapons, vampires saw themselves aloof and more refined, intellectual. Babette once explained to me that all needs and physical troubles, except for hunger, pain, and occasionally fatigue, were no longer present in their minds, which caused them to be more focused. They were also easily bored and a lack of interesting company like mortals or other vampires sometimes caused them to become feral, closer to wolves than to undead.

As a four-year-old pup I had neither known nor cared about these prejudices. Running through the forest, shifting from human to wolf, I'd smelled a strange scent of dust, living-but-dead, a tang of blood. And so I'd met Hert and her mate Hern. From Half-Moon Mill just at the roadside they were preying on unsuspecting travellers by night and selling timber by day. They'd been young too – Hert was freshly turned, Hern had been a vampire for not even a year – and somehow we became friends, confidants and hunting partners.

Except Hern wasn't there anymore.

I ran towards Hert, showering her with powdery whiteness. She smiled at that.

I opened my aching jaws and let the big bag fall into the snow, then I transformed into human and immediately regretted it. As hard as it was to speak as a wolf, at least it wasn't so cold!

While I tried to massage life back into my jaw, Hert said: "How are you? And what are the news you're carrying, you look ready to spill them any moment."

I almost smiled at that – I wasn't one to show my emotions. She'd probably guessed that from my speed and urgency. But she was right. "Ulfric S-stormcloak killed High King T-torygg."

Hert looked surprised, then she grimaced. "Wonderful, we finally have ourselves a war. That always increases the price for timber, but there'll be problems with my customers from other Holds. What do you think will Dengeir do?"

I shrugged. Dengeir of Stuhn, our old Jarl, usually left all the work to his steward, but in a war it would be his decision to take a side. He was a traditionalist, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take the Empire's side.

We all had seen the war coming for a long time now. Tensions had been rising between the Holds, smiths had received big orders for weapons, the Jarls bought huge amounts of supplies. Alliances had secretly formed, and now the silence had been broken. War.

"I h-have to go."

"Will you change again?" At my headshake, Hert offered: "You can put on your armour inside and warm up for a while, I still have to hunt."

I nodded and walked to the small house. Hert always hid the key under a stone next to the entrance. Inside it was slightly warmer, but that might have been only the absence of the slight breeze that was blowing outside. The vampire didn't need warmth anymore and had a natural aversion to fire, so I didn't light any, just pulled my gear out of my bag.

First I put on dark, threadbare clothes, then my armour of netch-leather. It was fascinating stuff, so slick it let most blades glide off at the right angle, and still holding a trace of the netch's poison, which made people alert, nervous, and energetic. I pulled on gloves that covered my fingers whole and wound a scarf – a gift from Gabriella – around my head to ward off the cold. I hated to block my sense off even slightly – the reason I wore no helmet – but neither did I like frozen ears.

Last I put on my weapons: a sword and a dagger on each hip, two knives in the shaft of my boots, a small blade in my quiver, an old worn quicksilver bow. I might be over-cautious, but I didn't feel save without at least three blades on me.

Hert was gone when I stepped outside. I locked the door again, put the key where it belonged, and walked on to the Sanctuary. Homewards.

An hour later I arrived at the small hollow that hid the entrance to my home. No nightshade was peeking through the snow here, but the Shadow Pool, as I'd called the small pond of darkest water, wasn't frozen. The Black Door looked as grim as ever too. It showed a skull hovering above a group of skeletons, four small ones sitting before a larger that had another small skeleton on its lap. The Dark Family. I pulled off my right glove and pressed my hand on the red handprint on the skull's forehead.

_What is the music of life?_ asked a voice inside my head. The loud, rasping whisper always made me shiver.

"Silence, my brother," I answered without stuttering, and the heavy stone door swung open. It hinges creaked loudly, announcing my return to my family.

I walked downstairs, noticing a new scent amidst the familiar smells. That was probably the Keeper, or the Night Mother.

Mother's office was empty, so I continued to the main hall…well, cave. The whole Sanctuary was a system of tunnels and caves, some natural, some carved into the stone long ago. The first cave was huge, holding a small pond with a waterfall and Father's forge.

And at the moment most of my family.

"Sister!" Babette ran towards me with unnatural speed. I could barely avoid the small vampire's arms as she tried to hug me at waist-level. My other siblings acted more mature, greeting from afar.

"Ah, there you are." Mother stepped towards me and as always I had the impression of looking into a mirror. I was still not as tall as her, had smaller…curves, thinner lips, and my eyebrows didn't arch as dramatically as hers – one thing I was grateful for. "Thokka, please welcome our Brother Cicero, the Keeper who has arrived just two hours ago from Cyrodiil, Brother Cicero, may I present you my daughter, Thokka."

I hadn't noticed him at first. He was an Imperial, judging by the name, but smaller than the average, with red hair falling over a nondescript face from under a jester's hat.

A _jester's hat._

He wore a whole jester's outfit, to be precise, in the muted red and black of the Brotherhood with occasional flashes of yellow. A hand in a black glove closed around mine and shook it with such a force I feared my arm would fall off. "Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you, Sister." I winced at the shrill, _cutting_ sound of his voice and his firm grip.

I knew this kind of greeting was common in Cyrodiil, but I still managed to slip my hand from his – with a slight twist – and clashed it in Nord fashion to my heart. "Welcome h-home," I said and cursed myself immediately for the slip. This wasn't his home. Well, I had never been good with words; phrases and sentences tangled somewhere between mind and mouth.

Cicero laughed – cackled, really – clapped a few times and even jumped from one heel to the other. "Home! Cicero hopes this will be his home. Oh, the Sister is as charming as her mother! If she is as deadly, she will become Cicero's best friend."

Somehow I doubted that. To his shrill voice came his smell of oils and ointments, potions, alchemy, flowers…it was to my poor nose what Ulfric's Shout had been to my ears.

I looked at Mother. "Ulfric Stormcloak k-killed the H-high King."

My family's reaction was the exact opposite of Hert's. Babette and Gabriella hugged and laughed. Nazir was grinning broadly. Father pulled Mother to him and gave her a kiss. Festus huffed at his siblings but even in his eyes there was the sparkle of excitement. Cicero again danced around them. I felt a smile twisting my lips.

War meant a lot of high-profile contracts, challenging and well-paid, and we were in desperate need of money and reputation to gain more work.

Over Babette's giggles, Mother finally called us to order. "I think it's a very good omen that these two important events happen at the same time, however, we should wait how the situation evolves." She had this way of speaking without pausing between the sentences. "Good. Then I think we should celebrate, hmm?"

Another wave of merriment went up at that. I wanted to join the others as they went towards the living area when Mother said: "Thokka, I still need your report."

I suppressed a groan as I followed her to her office. I told her about the contract and Solitude.

She was writing in the old thick ledger that kept the records. "Anything else?" she asked, looking at me.

I shook my head. I hadn't told her about the incident with the Companion, but that was solved now.

"Good. Then you can go and," a smile appeared on her lips, "try to be friendly to Cicero, I know he's…difficult but he _is_ the Keeper."

"_T-that_ obvious?

Mother laughed at that. "Oh no. You hide it well, but I am your mother, I know you."

Later, when I'd told the story of the High King's murder again and again, I pulled Gabriella aside. "W-what does foyada m-mean?"

The Dunmer looked surprised. "It means 'fire-river' in the language of the Ashlanders. A foyada is a deep ravine through which lava flows. Why?"

"N-no other meaning?"

"No." She looked at me concerned. "What's wrong, Thokka?"

I shook my head.


	3. Chapter 3

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Three

The Eyes of the Empire

20th Sun's Dawn 4E200

"No, Astrid, I have found no other tracks – ouch!" Nazir swatted my hand away

Again, all of us had gathered in the main hall, this time to listen to Nazir's report. The Redguard had stumbled upon a couple of soldiers – Penitus Oculatus – who were scouting in the forest around the Sanctuary. He'd gotten a shallow cut across his forehead and dire news.

"I don't there were more than – _will you stop that, devil-child_?" Again he slapped my wrist and I growled as an answer.

I was trying to dress his wound. Sometimes I thought the Redguard was the most endangered of all of us. Babette, Father and I were more than humans, Veezara a Shadowscale – a trained assassin since his birth. Gabriella and Festus were excellent mages, Mother was…well, herself, and I really didn't care about Cicero. Nazir only had his scimitar; he even refused to wear armour. A mere mortal, so fragile, so easy to catch a sickness or an infection and all of a sudden, gone.

And now he was bleeding. And it smelled good and fresh. And he was one of my pack. And he was wounded.

"Arnbjorn, dear, why don't you see if you can find a few more traces?" asked Mother all of a sudden. "Maybe Babette and Thokka can help you."

I turned to see Father was almost as agitated as me, and Babette was chewing on her lips. She was staring at Nazir, but not in a good way.

"Sure," said Father and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. I gave the piece of cloth I'd used to clean Nazir's wound to Gabriella, and off we were.

Outside was better, much better, snowy and cool and bloodless. The stars and moons were shining calmly above us.

The last weeks had been nerve-wrecking for all of Skyrim. The Empire had rallied its troops and the first soldiers had already landed under the command of a General called Tulius. The Pale and Winterhold had, as expected, declared their allegiance to Ulfric's men, the _Stormcloaks_ as they were now called. The Jarl of the Rift supported them too, surprisingly, which gave our most important customer quite the headaches. On the Empire's side were the Reach, Hjaalmarch, and now Falkreath – within days of Torygg's murder, representatives of the Empire had replaced Dengeir with his nephew Siddgeir, who would follow like a dog anyone who gave him treats. Only Whiterun still stood neutral.

Furthermore, the Emperor had decided to visit Skyrim in a few months, to raise morals, support Elisif – Torygg's widow who now claimed the throne as High Queen – and maybe to smooth things over diplomatically. His personal bodyguard, the Penitus Oculatus, was already hunting down potential dangers. Like us.

"How did they know?" asked Babette. When she received no answer, she repeated: "How did they know where to look for us?"

I shrugged.

How, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Four

Silence Dead, Silence Mourned

5th First Seed 4E200

My arm protested when I raised it to the Black Door. I felt sore all over; I'd spent most of the day helping Hert at the mill cutting timber for an urgent order. Apparently wood was a more important good in war times than murder – while Hert drowned in work, we had received a total of five contracts since the beginning of the Stormcloak rebellion. On the bright side, the Penitus Oculatus had stopped prying around in our forest.

Helping Hert was a good excuse to get away from home. I still couldn't stand Cicero's constant chattering and had taken to simply leaving the room whenever he showed up.

"Silence, my brother," I murmured and was let in and immediately began peeling off the thick winter clothes. It was about dinnertime and if my nose wasn't betraying me, Gabriella's ash yam stew was cooking over the stove. It was about the only cooked meal I liked.

"Thokka!"

"Mh?" I stopped at Mother's desk.

She looked slightly worried, lips pressed to a thin line. "We have to talk about something. Not here. Come."

I followed her into the room she shared with Father. Surprisingly, she didn't stop there but pressed the hidden button behind the wardrobe. It slid aside and revealed the secret chamber. Mother had shown it to me only once when I'd been very small. The room was mostly empty, with just two plain chairs standing in there.

Mother motioned for me to sit down and I did, watching her as she moved the wardrobe back into place. I didn't like this. It felt too much like some kind of interrogation.

She sat down in the other chair and stayed silent for a few minutes during which I only grew more nervous. I almost jumped when she leaned forward. "Thokka, can I trust you?"

What was this about? I nodded slowly.

She licked her lips. "I never thought I'd say this but Cicero has become a serious problem. You know he's been challenging me for some time now…"

I didn't.

"…or rather you don't because you are not here often enough to see him. And I'm grateful for that. I think he's trying to usurp me, to establish the Night Mother as the head of our family again, with him as her makeshift mouthpiece. Which is ridiculous – only because we have not kept to the old ways we have survived so long. I'm ready to give him and the Unholy Matron sanctuary, but only as long as he obeys the rules."

And? Did she tell me to kill him?

"Every evening after dinner, he locks himself in the room where we keep the Night Mother. Then somebody comes to him and they talk for a long time. I want you to find out who this somebody is."

"D-do you mean one of…o-of us…traitor?" My tongue failed me even more than usual. What? Who?

_What?_

She nodded. "I'm afraid it's the only explanation…"

Not Father. Not Nazir, he despised Cicero and he'd joined us long after the Sack of Bravil where the last Listener had died. Festus? He barely followed Mother's orders, much less the mouthpiece of a dry corpse. Vee was old and just wanted to be left in peace. Who was left then? Gabriella? Babette? It made me sick just to think that.

"…and I'd like you to eavesdrop on their conversation. Hide in the room. In the only place he won't look."

"Where?" I asked and raised my eyes from the floor.

She held my gaze. "The Night Mother's coffin."

Until then I'd thought Cicero was the only madman among us. This was… "He'll kill me."

"I'll stay outside. I'll be there, alright? Should anything happen, you just need to cry out and I'll come."

The world had become insane. Was insanity a disease? Maybe Cicero had been sent by Sheogorath.

I nodded.

Mother smiled, relieved at last. "Wonderful, I suggest you hide in the coffin immediately before Cicero has finished his meal."

Meal. Dinner. Ash-yam stew with diced horker meat. Ah, well. I stood up to leave the room when I thought of a question I hadn't asked. What would happen to the traitor?

I didn't want to know.

I had been in the room where the Night Mother was located only once since Cicero had come, and that was long ago. I didn't even like to go near it, smelling of flowers and oils as it was. Even before I hadn't liked it; all the benches that should be filled with Brothers and Sisters praying to Sithis or listening to their orders or other's tales only showed me how much we had lost.

The lock on the Night Mother's coffin – a heavy monster of cold iron – was easy to pick. The Keeper had probably not thought anyone would dare to violate the Unholy Matron. It was blasphemy, sacrilege. I had been raised on the values and the faith of my family and although I didn't worship Sithis and his mistress, this felt just wrong.

My fingers trembled more than usual when I laid them on the coffin. One movement and it would swing open. One tiny movement and I was doomed.

And if I didn't, maybe Mother was.

The hinges were well-oiled and opened without the slightest. The stench of the Night Mother hit me before I could lay an eye upon her. The same smell of ointments, mixed with the dust of centuries that no Keeper, no Listener could ever keep away, and underneath a dry scent: age, death, age, _millennia_.

She'd been a Dunmer once. Now she reminded me of a Draugr, old and dry and grey. Cloth was wrapped around her body but it didn't cover her dangling legs, an arm thin as a stick, the muscles warped and twisted. Her face had lost all features; the muscles had shortened until her mouth was forced to gape open. Only her eyelids held a memory of colour, a bruised pink that might have been paint for all I knew. The remains of coppery curls hung from her scalp.

She was just a corpse, but I was scared.

Suddenly I heard steps and humming coming near. Cicero! I no longer had a choice. "S-sorry," I whispered as I climbed inside the coffin and pulled the doors shut. The lock snapped into place with a soft click. I could worry later about getting out, but this way I could lean on the closed doors, away from the Night Mother's remains.

"Are we alone?" That was Cicero's voice. I could hear him pacing after he'd locked the door. "Yes... yes... alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going according to plan. The others... I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex... perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child..."

Wait those weren't involved in the conspiracy yet? Festus, Vee, Babette. This left Gabriella, Nazir and Father as possible traitors.

"What about you? Have you...have you spoken to anyone?"

There was no indication that there was another person in the room. No rustling clothing, no steps, no breathing even.

"No...No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying!" His hushed voice rose to a scream, he stopped walking. "And what do you do? Nothing!" Then he calmed down. "Not...not that I'm angry! No, never! Cicero understands." He laughed or maybe he sobbed. "Cicero always understands! And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you..." He sighed the next words: "…sweet Night Mother."

This idiot was speaking to the Night Mother! Anger rose inside me, for Cicero being such a lunatic and for my Mother to take him serious still.

_Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener._

"What?" I whispered into the darkness. Stupid perhaps. There had been no sound, just a voice inside my head. It reminded me of the Black Door but had been much gentler and…female?

Cicero hadn't noticed anything. He began pacing again. "Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!" A furious sob

_Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one. Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task - journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre._

What? It seemed to be my favourite word these days. Had this…was this…

"Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener."

…the Night Mother?

_Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.' _And with these words, the coffin's doors snapped open, spewing me on the rough floor.

Cicero's ebony blade was at my throat in an instant and I murmured quickly: "Darkness rises when silence dies" as fast as I could.

The fury in his eyes vanished, replaced by suspicion…for now. "What? What did the Sister say?"

I concentrated on the words. "Darkness r-rises when silence d-dies."

He gasped. "But how…she spoke to you didn't she?" At my nod, he laughed delighted. "Oh, then she is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener!" He did his weird little dance, bouncing from one foot to the other. "She has chosen you! All hail the Listener!"

With the sound of twisting metal, the doors to the chamber were flung open and Mother came through, her dagger in her hand. When she saw me lying on the floor, she paled. "Are you all right? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where's the accomplice? Reveal yourself, traitor!" The questions came too fast for me to answer, so I simply stood up and tried to dust myself off.

Cicero on the other hand grinned at her like the madman he was. "I spoke only to the Night Mother! I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn't speak to me. Oh no. She spoke only to her! To the Listener!"

This made Mother lower her weapon. "What?" This truly seemed to be everyone's favourite word these days. "The Listener? What are you going on about? What is this lunacy?"

"It's true, it's true! The Night Mother has spoken! The silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!"

Mother turned to look at me. "Then what in Sithis' name is going on?"

I'd have liked to know that too. "Guess I'm the L-listener. Says Cicero. A-and the Night M-mother. T-there's a contract too," I added hastily. Maybe the thought of money and murder would calm her down a bit. "Amaund Motierre. Volunruud. N-not the contract, the…" Contractor? What was the correct word? I left the sentence unfinished with a helpless shrug.

For once, she seemed speechless but quickly caught herself again. "The Listener, you? And a new contract? I know where Volunruud is, and as far as I know, Motierre is the name of an old Breton family, but…this is going too fast. I need time to think about this. Please keep silent about this, both of you. I am still the leader of this Sanctuary."

I couldn't blame her. This was yet another unexpected turn in this already complicated situation, and not one for the better. So I nodded my and Cicero too agreed, somehow.

Mother's face softened and she put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

" 'm fine."

She sighed. "I'm sorry but this seems all so…so ridiculous. You are barely fifteen, not fit to take over the Brotherhood yet, especially from one instance to the next. And with the war on our door we have enough to worry about."

I nodded. Of course I understood, although I would have liked to tell the others, just to see their faces. Listener! It was as if every childhood story had suddenly become reality.

Sadly, it felt rather like _A Gift of Sanctuary._


	5. Chapter 5

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Five

Chicken

17th First Seed 4E200

_I was standing in a barrow's high hall, sunlight streaming in through windows or holes on the roof. My right hand was caught in the grip of steel-covered fingers, gentle but firm._

_I turned to look at the man beside me. He wore steel armour, old and heavy, with the kind of protection that didn't come from quality but from experience. He had a sad face, with deep lines of sorrow engraved in young skin, but in his eyes hunger was blazing._

come _he said_ it's time there's still time left be ready come-

_He led me across the hall, straight through boulders as big as houses as if they were just smoke, as if we were just smoke._

_I asked him what he wanted and for a moment everything shivered and shifted._

there's no time be ready it's coming

_And suddenly we stood in front of three thrones, with three humans standing before them. To the right, a man in dark robes with cruel eyes and a cruel smile, toying with a knife. To the left, a woman in a dress of black and dripping scarlet, her grin baring sharp iron teeth. In the middle, a man clad like a priest, with soft brown curls and soft brown eyes, so soft they contained all the edges that could cut me._

_He raised his arms, looked up to the sky, and began to speak, but the words I heard didn't match the movements of his lips._

forever reborn…

_"To be reborn," said the man with the cruel smile as the priest's lips continued to move without a sound, "you have to die first. Remember, Sister dear, Sister dead – but you know enough about death, don't you?"_

…in blood and fire…

_"Blood and fire, fire and blood," sighed the woman. "That's all we ever get – that's all we deserve. But we wouldn't want it any other way, we need blood and fire more than air to breath."_

…from the waters of-

_The priest exploded into a bundle of golden flames that swallowed the three thrones and the two other people. For a moment I saw something in the fire – wings? – but then it raced towards me and all I could do was to scream a single word._

_"Foyada!"_

I woke all of a sudden, eyes snapping open, full awake and alert. There was no threat though, except for Festus' deafening snores perhaps.

With a sigh I rose from my bed and pulled off my sleeping robe – heavy wool dyed a faded lavender, an old gift of Stars-and-Stripes when her contract led her into a temple of Vaermina to kill a priest of Mara, or something similar. The fabric supposedly was drenched in some kind of liquid or gas that should make sleeping easier but also triggered unpleasant dreams.

Apparently that word was still bugging me to some extent.

I quickly dressed and left the sleeping area down to the kitchen. To my surprise, Mother was sitting at the long table, eating bread with butter. I had probably been right to assume it was about dawn – I'd always had a good sense for time.

I nodded towards her as a greeting and began to search through the box where we kept our meat cool for something tasty. Sadly the best we had were chicken, and raw, cold chicken tasted awful. Hunting would be worse though.

I pulled out a leg, and summoned a few flames in my palm with a whisper. Slowly I let the fire engulf the meat, always murmuring spells to regulate the heat.

"I have thought a lot and…if the Night Mother really did give you an order to talk to a contact, we'd be mad to ignore it. And I think we'd both agree, Cicero's brought quite enough madness to this Sanctuary. So go. Go to Volunruud. Talk to this Amaund Motierre. And let's see where all this leads."

I almost lost control over my spell for a moment or two, and if anything tasted worse than raw, cold chicken, it was burnt chicken. And human of course. Matters of the flesh aside…this was a strange decision, but curiosity – and greed – had obviously gotten the better of her. Good. Our situation was beyond desperate by now.

I nodded. "I'll go t-today." Hopefully Motierre was a patient man.


	6. Chapter 6

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Six

Silver and Wine

20th First Seed 4E200

Volunruud was an old crypt just at the Pale's southern border to Whiterun. From the outside it didn't look like much, which usually meant it had quite a wide interior. Occasionally I had gone dungeon-delving with some of my sibling and I knew the basic patterns of these structures.

Just after I'd entered I stopped and wasted a few more minutes to cast a Detect Life spell. Two flickering life-forms shone up in calm, none-threatening blue.

Then I used a few more minutes to struggle with a variant of that spell to detect the undead. Several animated – one dangerously near – and just by the living things, some that were as dead as it was possible for Draugr.

I walked down a few stairs, drew the sword hanging from my right hip with my left hand and plunged it in one fluid motion in the skull of a skeleton that had just tried to rise from its seat. As hard as Alteration magic was, it had its benefits.

Further down I found myself in a round room. Two smaller doors, a huge gate gleaming with enchantments, and a narrow tunnel were leading on. Remembering the location of the living beings I chose the tunnel and followed it to a small antechamber filled with Draugr – no longer animated. Impressive. If they had been just two they must have been excellent fighters.

Again I wasted a few minutes, to straighten my armour, pull my hair from its ponytail, and generally make myself seem older than fifteen. Then I knocked on the door.

A man opened the door, despite his Imperial features towering high over me, with a brutish face that would have fit a pit fighter or a mercenary. Yet his mass of muscles filled a legionnaire's uniform. He stared at me from small eyes.

"Brotherhood," I said curtly. The last I needed was my treacherous tongue twisting my words again.

After a few more moments he opened the door all the way to let me in. In the small chamber were two bedrolls, a chair that looked ready to fall apart, a burial urn, and a second man. He looked more like an Amaund Motierre: small, weasely, a dark-haired Breton clad in noble's clothes. I felt my regard for the soldier rise; I doubted this one had done more in the fight before the door than complain about the cold.

"Motierre?" I asked.

The fool actually smiled. "By the almighty Divines. You've come. You've actually come This dreadful Black Sacrament thing... it worked." When I said nothing, a hint of anxiety crept in his voice. "Right, then. You prefer to listen, is that it? Well, you must represent the Dark Brotherhood. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone else. So I'll cut to the chase. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well... centuries."

And he probably was one of the most annoying customers we'd had in centuries. I dimly remembered the name Motierre from a contract Selwyn had once told me about and if memory served me right, he'd been quite the weasel too.

"As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable."

Not as enjoyable as his death.

"But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of..." he paused dramatically "…the Emperor."

And once again I was speechless, wondering how Sheogorath had reached in some many minds. To kill the Emperor would be too risky, too dangerous for us who already had the Penitus Oculatus at our heels, too grand, too wonderful to refuse. Once the shock had left me I had to bite on the inside of my cheek to keep me from grinning.

"It's a shocking request, I know," Motierre continued. "But it is inside the purview of what you Dark Brotherhood types do. Isn't it? If history is to be believed? You must understand. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and manoeuvring. Now you're here, as if the very stars have finally aligned."

That sent a chill down my spine. There had been many coincidences in the last months, too many. Things were happening, but maybe not at Motierre's wish. Certainly not at mine.

"But I digress. Here, let me give you these. They are to be delivered to your, um... superior. Rexus. The items."

Rexus the bodyguard handed me a sealed package – lots of parchment, judging by the weight – and a golden amulet.

"The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable - you can use it to pay for any and all expenses. I hope to hear soon from your first success." An unspoken _You are hereby dismissed_ hung in the air, but I didn't mind.

Madness or no, it would be fun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chance's Follies

(Patterns I)

Chapter Seven

Madness

23rd First Seed 4E200

Mother was already waiting for me as I entered the Sanctuary. "You're back. Good. All right, so? Did you meet this Motierre? What did he want?" she asked as a greeting.

I handed her the package and the amulet as an answer. First she inspected the wonderful piece of jewellery, then she broke the seal on the package and pulled out a few pages of parchment. I watched her closely while she read the letter, how confusion turned to surprise and delight. When she looked up, she was grinning. "Is this about who I think it is?"

"If you're t-thinking 'Emperor'…"

She laughed. "To kill the Emperor of Tamriel...The Dark Brotherhood hasn't done such a thing since the assassination of Pelagius. As a matter of fact, no one has dared assassinate an Emperor of Tamriel since the murder of Uriel Septim, and that was two hundred years ago... If we pull this off, the Dark Brotherhood will know a fear and respect we haven't seen in centuries."

"If?" I asked.

Mother grinned. "When! You think I'd abandon an opportunity to lead my Family to glory?" She hesitated. "This is all so much to take in. I need time to read the letter, and figure out where we go from here. And this amulet. Hmmm...I think I'll pay Delvin a visit. Nazir will hold command of the Sanctuary while I'm gone…" She trailed off, lost in thought. With a smile I left.

Maybe madness was exactly what we needed.


	8. THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE!

THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE!

Patterns is an important story for me, and the last version is really really really really terrible. Since things are looking better now in my personal life, I'll write it completely, back and forth, until it's either perfect or I've died from old age. (The latter, probably.)


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